


Love Like You

by bustedbigtoe, smallbunnyinthesunlight



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Character Death, Drinking, Drunk Confession, Feelings Realization, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Sex, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sad times, Someone's gotta feed this pairing, Spoilers for Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 06:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20523134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bustedbigtoe/pseuds/bustedbigtoe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallbunnyinthesunlight/pseuds/smallbunnyinthesunlight
Summary: Byleth and Linhardt had promised each other that, together, they would find the best napping spots once the war had ended.





	Love Like You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tired_Introvert](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tired_Introvert/gifts).

Linhardt was casually laying in the grass, his arm raised to cover his eyes from the oppressive sunlight. This place wasn’t ideal when it came to napping, yet Linhardt never hesitated to settle himself right under the big oak tree that stood at the top of the hill. He wasn’t especially privy to the threat of bugs crawling in his hair or the itchy grass that poked his cheeks; however, he wouldn’t rather napping anywhere but right under that big oak. Linhardt found himself dragging his feet up the hill every single day right after the war ended. The trek wasn’t favorable, no, but he did it regardless.

Edelgard had offered to place every member of the Black Eagle Strike Force in some area of imperial nobility, whether it be in the court, military, or some other sort of made-up role—only to serve her selfish desire to keep old school friends together to the very end. Her proposition was made in good heart, but it didn’t feel right anymore. Some of the members took her word for it, while others decided it was best in their interests to go their own way.

Hubert remained as Edelgard’s faithful dog, loyal to the very end. Ferdinand continued to serve under Edelgard as well, his confusing mental tug-of-war chaining him to the role of the new prime minister. Bernadetta reluctantly accepted Edelgard’s proposal—simply because she was too afraid to go home and face her father after oh so many years. Petra found herself back in Brigid, taking up her role as the queen, promising a flourishing relationship between the two nations. Caspar stood by Edelgard's side as well, filling his father's role.

Dorothea left to finally dedicate her life to her full-time job of finding a good husband.

Linhardt agreed to take up the mantle of the ministry. If anything, it gave him access to the Imperial Library, while also providing him with something to spend his time doing. He didn’t really like having to work for Edelgard—what with her constant nagging and annoying self-centered opinions and beliefs—but it did fill a small hole in his heart. Perhaps if he spent more time around his friends from the academy, he could pretend that things were still simple. That things didn’t go so very wrong in his life.

It was obviously clear that Linhardt was clinging to the past. The old school days were over. They were at the start of the war, too—until a certain _someone_ had reappeared after a grueling five years. Despite the hardships of fighting against the world, Linhardt wouldn’t hesitate to say it was the best years of his life. Obviously not because of the fighting and blood and death, but because of a certain _someone_ that had single-handedly turned the tides of war.

_Someone_ that boosted the morale through the roof every time he stepped into the mess hall.  
_Someone_ that inspired heroic endeavors on the battlefield.  
_Someone_ that everyone looked up to, regardless of whether or not he was blessed by the goddess.  
_Someone_ that taught Linhardt how to love.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧♔ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Small skirmishes on the border had thrown southern Alliance nobility into chaos. Of course, Claude would have no other options but to fight back against the Empire or surrender his forces. Claude preferred diplomacy over battle, anyways. The Alliance was already a mess when war was declared-noble houses began to align to either the Kingdom or Empire despite the fact that they were positioned in Alliance territory. It seemed everyone was in a panic in the beginning. For the most part, a majority of nobles and commoners had no idea what was going on, or how the war would affect them. Claude determined that it was best to calm the people’s minds before doing anything a bit too rash.

It was unfortunate that it came to bite him in the ass later.

Linhardt assumed that Claude wasn’t very confident in the Alliance’s military strength compared to the Empire’s. Probably because the professor had declared allegiance with the Empire. Well, not really. The professor didn’t talk much, if at all, so _him_ declaring anything would’ve been quite a sight.

But when he stood on the battlefield, the Sword of the Creator gleaming in the sunlight, his princely attire screaming hero—well, anyone would probably start shaking in their armor at a scene like that. Especially when the Empire’s entire army stood behind _him_, awaiting his order.

Regardless, the Alliance had been a small conquest. Difficult, yes, but compared to the siege of the Kingdom, it seemed almost like childsplay.

...

Edelgard would always drag _him_ away, her cape swaying all empress-like in a way that Linhardt hated simply because he’d feel all sickly and green whenever he saw it. He barely got to see _him_ back in the Imperial Fortress—a name which Linhardt believed that a decrepit old monastery didn’t deserve—or on the battlefield.

She’d always request his presence to discuss battle tactics, placements on the field, their next plan of action, yadda yadda. Linhardt was never welcome at those discussions unless it had something to do with the strategic placement of the infirmary tents in the battle camps. Sometimes, if he was lucky, Edelgard would call upon him to inquire about the condition of the monks and bishops; if the physicians and doctors were well-equipped or if the healers were stationed in an area on the battlefield where they could access almost everyone with ease. Linhardt wasn’t much help though, because his gaze would always drift to the professor while Edelgard and Hubert went back and forth spouting things that very nearly bordered on toxic god-complexes and “higher purposes” or “an aim she must see to the end”. Whenever the conversation would shift back to reality—more like when the conversation would become relevant to the ‘normal people’—Linhardt would always be dragged from his daydreaming by Hubert’s intimidating glare or Edelgard’s voice. He’d give some half-baked answer and hope it’d satisfy the two. Linhardt, more than anything, just wanted to continue “researching” his professor with his eyes. The professor would sometimes honor him with a glance back. He cherished those moments more than anything.

Deep down, Linhardt knew that the professor didn’t think much of the discussions Edelgard dragged _him_ to either. There’d always be some flash of desperation or exhaustion in his eyes before he assumed his regular look of indifference. He’d always nod and follow obediently behind Edelgard. _The professor_ never mentioned his feelings, nor did anyone really ask _him_ if he was doing alright either.

Linhardt felt… bad for _him_. Did Edelgard only see the professor as no more than a battle asset, calling him “my teacher” to poke the student-teacher fire in hopes that he’ll assist Edel with whatever she needed because of their past relationship? Did everyone see _him_ that way? Even when he came back after five years of presumably being gone or… dead, nobody had asked if he was alright. Right after he showed up on the monastery footsteps, he was dragged right into the middle of war by_ his_ own students that _he_ had taught and raised. Linhardt thought that it didn’t seem like a very nice thank-you gift after keeping them alive for an entire year, especially after everything they had been through doing the school days.

Linhardt couldn’t really be mad at his school-mates, though. It’d be hypocritical to assume they had the worst intentions at heart, or that they didn’t care about _the professor_ simply because they didn’t ask about _his_ well-being. Linhardt never asked about _his_ well-being, either. Linhardt most certainly cared about _his_ well-being, but whenever _he_ would walk up to him with sunflowers or a new book about crestology, all thoughts about how _he_ was doing flew out the window.

Linhardt was mad at himself for never asking, but instead of actually questioning _the professor_ if _he_ was okay, Linhardt would instead default to excuses like lack of time to pardon how easily he lost track of rational thought when it’d come to _him_. It was unjustifiable, really.

Whenever _the professor_ had the time, he would always walk around the monastery in that aloof way that Linhardt admired so much, providing gifts and flowers to everyone. Linhardt didn’t know why he did it, but he’ll admit that it rose morale tremendously. Linhardt didn’t even know where he got such random items during wartime, but he came through anyway—as if nothing had changed from the good ol’ days.

Linhardt would never say it outright, either defaulting to his roundabout talk of crest research or napping, or literally anything that wouldn’t expose his feelings to the bright light that was _the professor_, but he loved it when he could hear the soft clicks of those black boots walking down the hallway towards the library, from the cafeteria, or on the fishing pier.

His heart would always start beating erratically and goosebumps would raise under all his comfy clothing.  
He knew it was irrational, in the beginning. He had felt this way back in the school days, too. At least back then he could make up excuses to see _him_ during any part of the day, whether it was to ask a question or to share some of his new findings on crests, or to just chat. _The professor_ had so much more time back then. Time to waste listening to Linhardt drone on about interesting crests—conversations that always led to Linhardt requesting that _the professor_ offer up some hair or blood or_ himself_ entirely for his research.

Sometimes he’d be asked to join the professor in the cafeteria for meals. Somehow, the professor always called him down to eat when they were serving his favorite dishes.

During the war, _the professor’s_ time was mostly consumed by the battlefield. Linhardt, of course, as a part of the Black Eagle Strike Force, would be a part of the marches to wherever Edelgard deemed they’d go. However, he was always placed with Mercedes—which Linhardt is still, to this day, surprised that the professor had recruited to the Black Eagle house—in the back with the other healers. _The professor_ was always at the front. Linhardt supposed it was because Edelgard wanted to send a message to their enemies.

On the battlefield itself, it was far too chaotic for Linhardt to keep tabs on who was where. He and his small battalion of amateur monks would do all they could to keep the soldiers on their feet. Mercedes was usually next to him too, sometimes giving small nods of encouragement when it seemed the battle was never-ending.

Every once in a blue moon, Linhardt would catch a glimpse of_ him_ on the battlefield. Linhardt was already well-versed with the professor’s battle style, but _wow_, he looked amazing while slaying some poor bastards from the opposing army. If Linhardt’s mind didn’t short-circuit completely when he would find the professor on the battlefield, he’d even lend a helping hand. Some white magic here and there, even if it was obvious that he didn’t need any assistance at all, what with his burning sword and lady-killing battle maneuvers.

If things were to stay like that, it’d be okay. Or so Linhardt thought.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧♔ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Linhardt hated to admit that he had stuck with the Black Eagle Strike Force simply because of the small hope that _the professor_ would show his face again to the waking world.

Before the Archbishop dragged_ him_ off to the holy tomb, and Edelgard pulled that cheap party trick (which was in very poor taste according to Linhardt), effectively throwing the world as everyone knew it into chaos, Linhardt believed he had made ground with _the professor’s_ and his relationship.

He still remembers vividly the night of Garreg Mach ball, when he had waited in the courtyard under the Goddess Tower. His heart was beating so fast, and he shuffled around awkwardly. All the other people waiting had already met with their partners and left, probably to engage in more fun activities. Linhardt was left waiting well into the night, his only reason for staying was the sliver of hope that he would show up.

And he did. And Linhardt messed up the entire romantic setting by getting intimidated by his look of indifference. Instead of professing how he really felt, Linhardt, as always, defaulted to some roundabout crest talk.

Linhardt would never forgive himself for not stating how he felt right then and there. He knew that the professor never showed how he felt! That didn’t mean he didn’t have any feelings at all!

He would never forgive himself for losing out on precious time-precious time between him and the professor.

Was he wrong to assume that those countless roses, lavenders, and lilies were a request for a relationship? Linhardt certainly compared his flower collection to the other students-which led him to the conclusion that he had an _overwhelming_ abundance of flora compared to everyone else-but it still wasn't convincing enough. Whenever _the professor_ handed him another flower, Linhardt didn't dare say that he had no more vases to place them in.

On top of all that, the countless gifts that he was given every week was a pretty obvious indicator of _the professor’s_ intentions. He loved fishing, of course, but how many fishing floats can one man have?! Linhardt even gained a little bit of weight from all those tasty treats_ the professor_ would always blankly hand him. Not even a “Here, eat this” or “I thought you’d like this”. No. _The professor_ would stare him right in the eye and give him a treat, a fishing float, and a book before nodding—_his_ way of excusing himself—and continuing about his day.

It was so obvious how _the professor _felt, and yet at the last second Linhardt got cold feet and spoke of… crestology. Again. Like he always did.

Linhardt thought that if he couldn’t get the courage to say his feelings, then they weren’t real feelings at all. They must be some confusing way to describe their student-teacher friendship.

How wrong he was.

When _the professor_ had disappeared following the B.E.S.F’s first battle at the monastery, there were no words to describe how Linhardt had felt. It hurt far too much to even consider that _he_ hadn’t made it out alive.

But it was okay because _the professor_ wasn’t confirmed dead. It was only a lingering, nasty thought. Nothing more. After witnessing _the professor_ rip through space-time with his sword after being condemned to some dubious abyss by Solon, Linhardt didn’t believe that he would die so easily. Everyone else believed the same.

And when _he_ had shown up years later, alive and looking not a single second older, the relief that flooded Linhardt was ineffable. It was like finally getting that breath of fresh air after being forcefully drowned for so long. So, so long.

If Linhardt thought that the idea of Byleth dying hurt far too much, it was absolutely nothing compared to actually seeing it happen right in front of him.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧♔ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Linhardt still remembers it as if it were yesterday.

It was a warm summer day, and although the breeze was nice and cool, it wasn’t truly enough to stave off the sweat and oppressive heat that came with sitting inside a stuffy monastery all day.

Most of the Imperial Army was beyond the monastery walls, but some had come in to steal some boxes of the rare Adrestian wine that was being handed out like candy. Edelgard had decided some celebrations were in order, considering their success of taking over Alliance territory.

Linhardt wasn’t much for drinking, but if it’d give him a way to knock himself into sleeping, he’d consider it. It was completely impossible to take a comfortable nap when sweat was continually dripping from his nape and into his clothing.

If taking a nap was presumed to be impossible, taking his eyes off _the professor’s_ topless form was even more so.

It seemed logical in a sense. It was hot. Taking a dip in the monastery’s pond seemed like a rational decision, given the weather. But in Linhardt’s brain, it seemed very, very illogical. Why was he half-naked, dipping his feet into the pond? Was he trying to give Linhardt a heart-attack?

Normally, Linhardt would’ve picked his jaw up off the ground and went on his merry way. However, he had already had more than enough sips of wine to consider himself somewhat drunk. In his stupidly drunken stupor, Linhardt walked over to _the professor_ and had the gall to ask _him_ what _he_ was doing.

There was a slight jump in the professor’s shoulders, but before Linhardt could even acknowledge it, he had turned around and answered honestly:

“It’s hot. The public baths are full, and I wanted to cool down.”

It was obvious the professor had indulged in the parties activities as well, given his slightly glazed look and odd course of action. Plus, the fact that he spoke like a normal person, and so casually at that, was a dead give away that the professor was more than a little buzzed.

Linhardt was struggling with an internal tug-of-war, and the booze didn’t help his cause in the slightest. Should he accompany the professor, and dip his feet in the water as well? It’d certainly cool him off. However, being so close to his bare skin would probably make Linhardt pathetically die from a brain aneurysm rather than heatstroke.

The smart choice in his situation would probably be to nod and walk away, content to waste the rest of the day in his sleeping quarters.

Instead, all of Linhardt’s repressed feelings spilled forth, culminating in a surprisingly strong force. It compelled Linhardt to slide off his boots and roll up the hems off his puffy pants. To slip his feet into the water next to his professor’s and comfortably settle himself on the pier. The professor made no move to stop him, so he believed it was okay.

It was okay, for now, at least.

Every once in a while, Linhardt would bring up some random comment about crests or fish. Even in his drunken state, he made sure not to mention anything about the war. He could tell from the soft darkness under_ his professor’s_ green eyes that the war had taken a toll on_ him_.

It made his heart stutter every time he would say something and the professor would tilt his head towards his direction, to indicate that he was listening. He never responded, but Linhardt didn't mind much. He’d do all the talking for tonight, it seemed.

Despite all that, though, the professor would keep his eyes on the pond. He’d never look at Linhardt.

Out of his tipsy pettiness, Linhardt grew a heart of steel and questioned, “What’s so interesting in the pond?”

His professor coughed slightly before responding with, “I want to see the fish.”

Linhardt raised a brow at that. Did he really want to see the fish? Sometimes, when he’d walk past the pier every once in a while to either have his own go at fishing or to just go to the cafeteria and such, he’d see the professor throwing his bait out in the pond like some mighty fishing god. Next to _him_ would always be a bucket overflowing with trout, goby, and all other types of fish, big and small.

It seemed wrong to call out his own teacher on his bullshit, but a drunk Linhardt is a courageous one.

“Haven’t you seen all the fish, though?”

The professor didn’t respond immediately. He continued to swing his legs back and forth in the water, before softly inhaling and answering, “Does it bother you?”

Yes, it does! Very much so!

By now, indignation bubbled right under Linhardt’s skin, threatening to burst. The professor didn’t seem phased by Linhardt‘s presence in the slightest! It really was a huge blow to his ego. It seems Linhardt was initially right: his teacher really had no feelings for him. Nothing! It was all just imagined glances and soft smiles. Perhaps it was all just in Linhardt’s head. The night under the Goddess’ Tower. The soft glances in class. All of it!

This was reminding him of the last time he attempted to confess! He needs to stop struggling with all this mindless back-and-forth. Just say it, Linhardt! Say it!

Although Linhardt was usually the type to look before he leaped, his current situation was an extreme outlier. All that sickly green envy—the type that bubbles and boils under your skin for years and years—had finally reached its breaking point. No more looking the other way, no more turning a blind eye.

Tomorrow wasn’t a promise! He might as well just say it!

If he gets rejected, he’ll sleep it off. For sure.

“Yes, actually! It does bother me. Look at me, instead.” Linhardt already felt a sickness building in his stomach. Who says such sappy, cheesy things?! Had he spent too much time in the library, sticking his nose in those romance books? When was the last time he even read a romance book?!

The professor’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, before assuming a confused look—raising a finely-trimmed brow—that forced Linhardt to blush and look away.

Linhardt couldn’t handle the suffocating silence anymore. He planted his palm on the rickety pier and lifted his feet out of the water. Before he could utter his goodbyes, a soft voice responded:

“Okay. I’ll look at you.”

Linhardt glanced back towards _his professor_, his dark blue eyes meeting equally dark eyes. Byleth’s eyes conveyed something that Linhardt was too scared to translate into words. There was a mixture of so much swirling into those green depths, and it made Linhardt’s heart stutter.

Before another word could be said, Byleth made the first move. He slowly raised his arm, as if dealing with a wild animal, and grabbed Linhardt’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. Gently, ever so gently, he pulled Linhardt’s lips to his own.

The kiss felt so right. Like finding that final puzzle piece after believing it had been lost for hours. Like achieving something you had worked for after many sleepless nights. Linhardt finally felt like that nap wasn’t the first thing he was looking forward to that night.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧♔ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

It was much later in the years, the years during the war, that Linhardt finally felt he reached a comfortable constant in his odd friendship with the Byleth. Friendship was an awkward word to use, considering the multiple shared kisses in secret hallways and minute hand-holding in the courtyard once a week. And those nice conversations during tea time. Byleth always managed to scavenge some Angelica for him, somehow. 

(Calling the two of them a couple? Much too primitive. Linhardt wholly believed that the thing between him and the professor was something far more profound, beyond just what one word could convey.) 

It did make sense, though, once Linhardt had spotted the overflowing box of Angelica in the corner of Byleth’s room that one night when the both of them felt a bit too frisky. Not that Linhardt would ever tell Byleth that he saw the box. It was sweet. So sweet, in fact, that it strengthened his belief that Byleth, deep under that facade of indifference, was actually quite adorable!

Irrespective of all those nice, average day activities that Byleth and Linhardt would indulge in from time to time, Linhardt could safely say that his favorite moments were when the two enjoyed a comfortable silence in the library together.

Linhardt would always choose some research book to read, whether it be about crests, the art of white magic, or fishing. He expected Byleth to read something about war, at least at first.

The first time Linhardt encouraged their book-club escapade, he was quite baffled when Byleth sauntered headway towards the romance section.

Thumbing through the spines, Byleth actually looked quite invested in which of the multiple spicy erotica books, that the library had for some odd reason, were attuned to his tastes at that very moment. Much to Linhardt’s surprise (was it surprise? Or chagrin?), Byleth bent down and picked up the princess tale off the ground. Linhardt took a peek at the title, raising a brow when he spied some cheesy story about a hero and a damsel. Really, Byleth?

Byleth didn’t say a word when he sat next to Linhardt in the upper recesses of the Library. He just opened his book and began to read. One hand on his chin, the other on the corner of the pages, keeping the book open. His brows were furrowed and his eyes were sparkling with a soft delight.

Linhardt was shocked! This is the man he fell in love with, a sucker for princess books! Linhardt didn’t know whether to be disappointed with Byleth or with himself.

Regardless of Byleth’s poor choice in novels, Linhardt still greatly enjoyed discussing his beliefs about poetic motifs and rhetoric with the other man.

Sometimes, if Linhardt was lucky, Byleth’s hand would abandon his chin and softly envelop Linhardt’s own hand for comfort. Just to remind each other that they were still living and breathing. Still there. Still together.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧♔ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The Black Eagle Strike Force had finally sieged the Kingdom following their arduous infiltration of Alliance territory.

The battle was bloody. Disgusting. Horrifying, gorey, nightmare-wrenching. Linhardt could write an entire book on just the words he found that accurately described the atrocious battle against Dmitri and his army. Not that he’d want to. Ever.

Corpses everywhere. Screams from all different directions. Linhardt had lost most of his battalion of priests, whether they deserted mid-battle or were brutally killed by some faceless knight. He couldn’t find Mercedes among the entire mess, nor could he find any members of the Black Eagle Strike Force.

It lasted many nights, the battle. It was horrible, trying to find someplace to collapse safely from exhaustion. It was impossible to sleep, being awoken every few hours by blood-curdling screams or uncanny silence. Off in the distance, he could still hear yelling and clashing of swords. It was freezing, too. Lean arms provided no warmth, and the cloak that Linhardt had brought with him was ripped to shreds while he attempted to save some young soldier from dying a pitiful death. He didn’t dare make a fire, fearing that the smoke and light would bring attention to himself. Was surviving even worth it?

Of course it was, if it meant he could see Byleth one more time.

His hands were bloody and marred. No longer thin and soft like they used to be prior to… all of _this_.

...

It was the third night of him staying huddled beneath a large boulder. The rock shielded his small frame from most of the frosty winds, but it wasn’t enough to completely prevent him from getting some sort of pre-onset hypothermia.

Every once in a while, Linhardt would attempt to stand up. Attempt to find someone to save, to perhaps make himself useful so that he didn’t wallow in his own self-pity—either waiting for the war to be declared over or for there to be no one left to even fight the battle.

He hadn’t seen anyone he recognized in days. Sometimes a lone soldier would stumble past, bloodied and ignoring him completely. He had tried to keep track of the time, but his hunger, exhaustion, and thirst distracted his line of thought.

However long it had been, Linhardt seriously felt like he was on the verge of death. As if he was standing on the edge of an abyss—a very comfy looking abyss—but an abyss nonetheless. Something so wholly overpowering and consuming, yet something that also offered a way out. From all the pain and hunger and thirst and desire and sadness. Something that would right everything that went wrong, somehow.

He was so close to teetering over. His chapped fingertips clutched loosely at his worn clothing as he stared into that hole. His toes were hanging over the edge. He tried to wiggle them, but they were frozen solid. Linhardt wondered that, had he stuck his hand in, would the infinite hole pull the rest of him down? What an enticing thought.

Linhardt shakingly reached his arm out, only for a harsh hand on his shoulder to suck him right back into reality. The cloudiness in his gaze suddenly cleared, like the sun reappearing after a fierce thunderstorm. The cotton in his head was melted, and Linhardt could finally breathe—no, live again.

He shot his gaze towards the arm, recognizing a familiar red fabric. Raising his eyes, Linhardt spotted a bruised and beaten Edelgard, smiling softly down at him.

“It’s over.”

Linhardt had never heard such relieving words in his life. A smile graced his lips, and his heart thawed.

Edelgard filled him in on the rest of the B.E.S.F’s forces, all except for one. Byleth.

She had claimed that “her teacher” had pushed far ahead in the battle, actively chasing after Rhea while she dealt with Dmitri. Edelgard said that was the last time she saw him, which had been four days ago.

Linhardt felt himself suddenly close off again. It was so right, wasn’t it? It was always like this, wasn’t it?

He felt ugly inside. As he leaned on Edelgard for support while they walked, Linhardt felt like she was lying. Maybe she was hiding _the professor_? Maybe she didn’t want anyone to find _him_, so she could continue to abuse _his_ powers for her own agenda. Maybe she kill- what? What was he thinking?

Byleth had already pulled himself from death twice, what's saying he won’t do it a third time? He repeated his hopes of Byleth’s survival like a mantra, praying that the one his heart held so dear would still be with the living.

Edelgard quickly amassed the remaining B.E.S.F forces, relaying to them what she had told him. She repeated the same story of Byleth’s disappearance, and Linhardt watched as everyone’s hopeful face peeled off like wax paper. Their features contorted to ones of worry, panic, and fear.

Everyone agreed to set out immediately and find Byleth. They said that it’d be dishonorable to return home without him.

…

It wasn’t Linhardt who found him.

The silence filled Linhardt’s lungs with unease. Linhardt and Caspar partnered together to search through the dirtied woods. Caspar’s state was unfortunate. A broken arm, his armor shredded through like butter. Scratched and mottled with bruises, yet there wasn’t any hesitance in his step. He diligently lifted corpses and scouted around the area, actively searching for Byleth. Linhardt didn’t offer much assistance, despite his strong desire to see Byleth again. He was suffering from his own internal battle. Fruitless thoughts spiraling around in his head, making his anxiety spike. The fact that his entire line of sight was filled with sinewy cartilage, bloodied muscle, and crushed skulls didn’t help in the slightest.

A sudden wail sent a flock of crows flying from their small reprieve in a far off grotto.

When Caspar and Linhardt had arrived to see who could’ve made such a grotesque scream, it all made sense.

Dorothea was kneeling, clutching a dim sword in her arms. Her face was covered in tears and snot, her dress muddied and filthy. Petra stood petrified, her face twisted and her eyes misted. Hubert was looking off to the side, his gaze focused on the bugs crawling amongst the corpses. Mercedes was clutching onto Dorothea’s dress, her own tears wetting her robes.

Bernadetta was clutching her bow, shaking like a leaf while she sat in the grass. Her eyes stared blankly ahead. Edelgard didn’t make a noise as she softly sobbed into her hands. Ferdinand stood silently next to her, his eyes closed.

Caspar ran up to Dorothea, roughly gripped her dress and begging her to explain. She didn’t have to.

In front of Dorothea was a headless corpse. The clothes were too tattered to even recognize, and the body was far too decayed to tie a name to. Linhardt felt himself stumble forwards as if his entire world had tilted to one side.

It was obvious who the owner of the poor body was, regardless of it being headless and half-decayed.

The sword gave it away.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧♔ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Linhardt opened his eyes, dragging himself back to the present. The sun was much lower than it had been when he had settled himself down under the tree originally. Did he fall asleep and dream of the past?

It was all so long ago. Tears didn’t flow anymore when Linhardt thought of those times, but the aching in his chest never left.

He still came to the same tree every day. The tree that he and Byleth had promised to meet under when everything was over.

Linhardt promised, and he intended to keep that promise.

Soft flowers with dewy petals flowed in the wind. Birds chirped and fluttered listlessly among the branches of the old oak tree. Clouds bounded along the sky like they were still wet behind the ears.  
The sun’s warmth was a welcomed whisper on Linhardt's skin. The grass waved back and forth, dancing to the tune of the wind.

Linhard smiled. Byleth would’ve liked this place so much.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

Linhardt shot up, whipping his head towards the direction of the voice. It sounded so achingly familiar. A searing white-hot pain burned behind Linhardt’s eyes.

From behind the tree trunk stepped a young man with matching hair and eyes. He was so beautiful to look at.

Linhardt sat in awe. He didn’t dare move a muscle. Didn’t dare disrupt his own paradise. Maybe he had died while napping under the tree, instead of sleeping and waking up? Was this heaven?

The man walked forward, reaching his gloved hand out—the same gloved hand from all those years ago—as if offering a wish.

Linhardt grabbed it hesitantly, raising his gaze to meet those smiling eyes.

The man pulled Linhardt up and into an embrace, whispering softly in his ear:

“You really did wait for me.” He said it as if he believed Linhardt to be some filthy oath-breaker.

Linhardt laughed, his eyes curving into crescents. He loved this man so much.

“Of course I did.”

**Author's Note:**

> To italicize or not to italicize.


End file.
